


Tom Riddle and The Golden Parsnip [Revised Ending]

by slashaholic666 (queerlybeloved777)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Babysitter Abuse, Babysitter Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Caretaker Peter Pettigrew, Caretaking, Christmas, Consent Issues, Not Canon Compliant - Fantastic Beasts Movies, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Other, POV Alternating, Parent-Child Relationship, Poverty, Revised Version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerlybeloved777/pseuds/slashaholic666
Summary: Original fic was written forChristmas Magic Fest, a Tom Riddle | Voldemort shipping challenge. Prompt: Christmas, specifically Christmas 1994 in Little Hangleton featuring Bellatrix/Tom.Revised Ending: I bit off more than I could chew when it came to planning out scenes and how fast I could finish writing by the challenge’s deadline. While I hope the original submission can stand on its own, I personally want to clean up the ending that I know I rushed (amounting to about 5,550 extra words).
Relationships: Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Tom Riddle, Peter Pettigrew & Tom Riddle
Kudos: 1





	Tom Riddle and The Golden Parsnip [Revised Ending]

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who left such nice FB comments on the cover art. I saved them in a tumblr draft until authors were revealed [10 Feb 2020] because I couldn’t like every comment as they came in ([if you want to see the post](https://web.archive.org/web/20200210050258/https://lapsed-bookworm.tumblr.com/post/190747915526/authors-participating-in-the-challenge-were)).
> 
> Rated Mature for an implied sexual interaction between a de-aged character and an adult character (happens ‘off screen’ or outside of explicit details). I don’t intend to character bash (or lean heavily into sanism with Bellatrix), but this will *not* be a happy, pro-Bellatrix/Tom fic. Please keep in mind that this is fictional and it is not impossible or futile to report inappropriate sexual behavior with a child.
> 
> If you’re not sure if someone may be showing signs of child sexual abuse (CSA), [Stop It Now! UK and Ireland](https://www.stopitnow.org.uk/helpline.htm) has a helpline, resource guides for adults, and [Stop It Now! Scotland](https://www.stopitnow.org.uk/scotland.htm) and [Stop It Now! Wales](https://www.stopitnow.org.uk/wales.htm) resources. If you would like to report any type of abuse (not just CSA), there’s the [NSPCC](https://www.nspcc.org.uk/what-you-can-do/report-abuse/) (National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children) reporting page. {ETA: [Resources for People Concerned About Their Own Sexual Thoughts and Behavior During the COVID-19 Outbreak](https://www.jhsph.edu/research/centers-and-institutes/moore-center-for-the-prevention-of-child-sexual-abuse/resources/covid-19-csa-prevention/) has international and multilingual resources as well.}

##### Prologue

A set of small white index cards with tiny, neat cursive cataloguing a potion have been tucked behind a recipe for dandelion salad in a grey plastic box on the kitchen counter of the Riddle House:

_R estoration of the Body_

_#1: Spirit made Flesh_  
_Blood willingly given (1 cup min - 1 pint max)_  
_Non-blood body part to Anchor_  
_Powdered eggshell (6 small eggs or 3 large eggs)_  
_Rosemary_

_Heat blood to boil. Add rosemary; stir widdershins 7 times. Add Anchor part; stir deasil 7 times. Lower heat to simmer. Add powdered eggshell; stir widdershins for 1 minute or until pale pink. Remove from heat and allow to cool to drinking temperature. Anchor must drink at least 3 drops daily for 7 days. You will know if you have been successful._

_ #2: Flesh made Manifest _

_In cauldron large enough for Final Body, add 8 pints sea water. Bring to a boil. Add 10 yew berries and a Destroying Angel wearing his Death Cap for whom the Funeral Bell tolls. Lower heat to simmer for 1 hour (add more sea water as necessary). Remove from heat and allow to cool before storing while gathering the final ingredients. When ready, bring cauldron to a simmer. Place the Current Body inside, and add before it drowns:_

_Bone of Relative (turns blue)_  
_Flesh of Servant (turns red)_  
_Blood of a Living Foe (turns white and steams)_

_One chance; death or success. Have clothes on hand._

A piece of parchment has been torn from elsewhere and tucked in between the two index cards. It has the peculiar overlay of graphite that has faded from time written over with blue pen in a different hand:

> For In Between the Potions
> 
> The remainder of Potion #1 can be fed to the restored body “as necessary” (can last anywhere from an hour to several days, depending on initial blood amount), but it’s not intended to be drunk after a week. Try infant formula with Nutrient Supplement Potions, if needed. No known notes on what the hell “robust feeding and adequate warmth will age the body quickly” means.
> 
> Teething - Chamomile?
> 
> The Dark Lord’s Shade is kinda-sorta buried (or locked away?), so sometimes he can be communicated with as an adult (see Summoning Circle instructions) for a short amount of time, but sometimes he’s just Tom, the child learning how to walk. Phrase as “reacquainting the body with a skillset” instead of reminding him that Tom hasn’t learned how to do that yet?

##### 1 Dec 1994

The village of Little Hangleton was not sure what to think of its mysterious visitor - a man with mousy hair and the thin face of someone who hasn’t been well - and his children. It was odd, Mrs. Bayberry maintained, that no one had ever seen them all together, but Mr. Hill had been quick to point out that the children were far too close in age for one person to manage in public. He had been desperate for baby formula over the summer, and then puzzled over the pull-up diapers in the fall, but now, according to Mr. Tilby, the man was poking around the bookshop for books for beginners reading and writing exercises. It wasn’t that anyone disliked the possibility of having children around (it certainly gave the pensioners something new to gossip about), but it was a bit odd for a family with such young children to have bypassed Great Hangleton with its highly respected primary school. Although, Mrs. Richardson did have to wonder if the man chose Little Hangleton because he couldn’t afford Great Hangleton. His clothes were more often than not a hair too big and well worn like he was making due from a secondhand shop, and he carried an envelope of pound notes instead of a wallet. He had never gotten a driver’s license, according to Mr. Merken, who had helped him set up a P.O. box at the post office, but he did have a photo ID that seemed a bit strange and shimmery when he tried to remember it. It wouldn’t be that much of a stretch to mistake him for a homeless man on the streets of London, but here he was, walking the streets of Little Hangleton in a jumper and threadbare coat. It was the first of the month, so his envelope was thick, and it was time for him to make the rounds.

Mrs. Richardson, who brought the parcels set aside for Hangleton from the food pantry down in Malton, was the first stop. She had carefully labelled each parcel with the pertinent but non-identifying information (no peanuts, dairy free, 2 adults, etc.) by the time he walked in for the sole adult + child option. In theory, no one was supposed to know which family was receiving assistance, but the usual pensioners who needed a little help each month couldn’t pretend to not notice the relatively young man with his strange bag that could perfectly fit the large parcel without straining. Mr. Merken the Postmaster was second because like clockwork, a parcel labelled FRAGILE arrived on the first for _Mr. Pettigrew_. Even though it had a clearly visible MEDICATION warning label, no one was brave enough to inquire into what condition was so specialized that the chemist’s shop in Great Hangleton didn’t carry or couldn’t order his medication. In a moment of pity, her daughter Darlene had offered the strange man a spot in her rideshare to the closest Boyes shop, but he had politely countered with sending a few pounds and a list, so no one nearly three times his age would have to give up their seat, which was how Darlene’s driveway was his third stop. Then a browse of Mr. Tilby’s Tea and Book Shop, checking out the bargain bin at The Fabric Bird, and The Golden Parsnip for lunch. Which was how a certain grey-haired woman knew where to find the strange man before he headed back to wherever he was living with his family.

“Mr. Pettigrew”, Mrs. Richardson slid a piece of paper across the table towards him, “I don’t want to presume, but I was wondering what your plans for Christmas were.”

“Tom’s not really old enough to enjoy a big meal”, he frowned as he read further down on the page, “But I suppose making a soup out of tinned peas is a bit . . . sad.”

“Darlene’s going down to the Tesco in Thirsk each weekend.”

Mr. Pettigrew folded the paper for a special Christmas parcel from the food pantry into quarters and stuck it inside his coat, “I have to check the cupboards, but I might take her up on that.”

~

Peter wasn’t the greatest at surprises whether that was his cover as an Order spy within the Death Eater ranks being blown, the Dark Lord turning to old magic to control his Animagus, getting stuck in his rat form for twelve years while under an order, anything related to Sirius in the past year, or returning to his assignment, but meal planning for an event he was hoping he could skip this year had to rank up there in unpleasantry. He had carefully worked out a meal plan between the monthly parcels and light shopping, and now, he was thumbing through December’s allowance and staring at a scrap of paper for brainstorming.

“How do you feel about turkey? Or goose?”

“Is that like the tinned chicken?” _Fuck._ He clearly needed to work on branching out from their monthly staples if Tom felt the need to ask that. “Should I ask Shay?”

“Yeah, might as well see if Shade has an opinion on Christmas dinner.”

Tom always got a serious look on his face when he posed questions to his headmate. His green eyes would lock onto a corner of the room, and he tended to scowl to varying degrees, ranging from barely an eyebrow twitch (if you don’t bring the rowan berries to a full boil, the jelly will kill us) to full pout (he agrees that I should go to bed at 7:30). It was unnerving how unruly Tom’s black hair was, but there was no way to mistake the young boy for James when he came with access to fifty-some years of Dark magic and a loyal Anchor in Nagini. _I hope she doesn’t want a fresh goose for Christmas._

“Mr. Gerhold was talking about cabbage steaks as a side, and a head of cabbage is only ten knuts --”

“Mushroom Wellington.” _Bloody fuckin’ puff pastry._

“I don’t suppose Shade has a recipe in mind, has he?”

“Portobello, and three or four other types, erm, about 900 grams. It’s - It’s the one with walnuts and onions.”

Peter couldn’t say he wasn’t intrigued. If left to his own devices, he’d probably try to dredge up the memory of his great-aunt’s sweet potato and mushroom Wellington, but at some point, the Dark Lord has had an almost entirely mushroom variant. Or perhaps he saw it being made while incorporeal? Peter wrote down the details Tom could translate from Shade’s images, “I’ll ask for specifics when I do the Summoning check-in.”

##### 3 Dec 1994

It was by the grace of magical obliviousness that the residents of Little Hangleton did not see what flew through their skies to the old Riddle House - a collection of hollow bones held together by moss and spider silk with swathes of cobwebs padding out the wings. It was as silent as an owl as the creature navigated wards against the more respectable (some would say Light) forms of magic and their obvious Tracking to deliver its letter. In another life, it had been a barn owl, and those wixen who could see the glamour wouldn’t recognize Dark wixen were corresponding with one another via an ostdeor. The repurposing of bones without a soul attached to them was a branch of magic that Nature would consider Grey, but after one too many Wizarding Wars, the creation of an ostdeor was now ‘Dark’ and more difficult than the average wix could be expected to bother with. However, a loophole that no one had yet divulged to the British Aurors allowed for the continued use of ostdeors made prior to Hallowe’en 1981. It’s not like they needed food or water, but they did need recuperation time and repairs if someone tried to task them with carrying more than their spell limits allowed, such as a heavy parcel of various potions up to Yorkshire.

~

> To:  
>  Current Residents of  
>  Riddle Manor  
>  Little Hangleton
> 
> Dear _Current Resident_,  
>  We have received your request for an additional December allowance for the purposes of - mushroom Wellington, several options for sides (bread pudding, brussel sprouts, and cranberry relish), Yorkshire pudding, crackers, and a set of Muggle books for reading and writing, which have been denoted as a ‘gift’. After consulting with Severus about the validity of your Tesco prices, Rastaban has agreed to release the funds for your main, brussel sprouts, and Yorkshire pudding.
> 
> After extensive re-checking of _The 8th Century Lazarus: Plegwin’s Resurrection_ , _De temporum ratione (The Reckoning of Time)_ sections 1 and 2, and various Paschal works at the Monkwearmouth--Jarrow library, it has come to our attention that your reckoning of the First Body’s ageing has not been entirely accurate or adequately prepared for. In short, the allowance for infant formula that you no longer needed in September and October should be enough to cover any extraneous holiday charges you may want, and the memories of the Shade can be incorporated into the First Body’s current knowledge without the need of education.
> 
> It would do well for you to remember that the caretaking of the First Body is not the same as child rearing. I’m aware it may be difficult to remember the separation when infant formula and nappies were involved in the first few months, but you are merely attending to certain physical needs until the First Body has grown enough to care for itself. If you were not so worried about child overdosing warnings to administer the Nutrient Supplement Potion in the dosage indicated to age the First Body by our Monkwearmouth--Jarrow sources, you would no longer have need to take care of a young child by now.
> 
> Be that as it may, we see no need to cater to a full Mugglization of the Yuletide season via Christmas or undue infantilization of our Dark Lord with children’s books. Our Lord is old enough to be your father, and you want to pull crackers and give him Christmas presents? Have you forgotten that the preservation of the Old Ways has played a central role among Pureblood families for several decades now? I would caution you to not mention this ridiculousness to our Lord, but we could see the merits to your request for a babysitter while going to this Tesco. Severus has assured us that it’s incredibly unlikely for an Apparition safe zone to be anywhere near the shop due to the car park and nearby shops. Bellatrix will be sent to the manor on the 17th.
> 
> Farewell Holly, and hail to the Oak!
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  _Rodolphus Lestrange_

##### 17 Dec 1994

Bellatrix had been warned that the Dark Lord was by no means at the top of his game while residing in the First Body, but she had not been prepared for what was awaiting her at Riddle Manor. First Body was young with raven hair and bright emerald green eyes like the portrait of one of the long dead Riddle men in the foyer. ( _Like Potter_ , but she didn’t want to think of that. That line of thought was murky with wartime duels with James Potter, descriptions of the Potter boy from _The Daily Prophet_ , and secondhand stories from Severus. Her Lord was not like him.) Her Lord was hard to pin down. He had the knowledge of the small greenhouse’s layers of charms and spells regulating the temperature, humidity, keeping pests out of the soil, etc. to know if it needed maintenance, but he needed to practice the most basic of spellcasting in the old ballroom because First Body didn’t have the muscle memory of wand movements. He could remember the theory behind which ingredients were needed in a potion or which runes were best for a ward, but he was as prone to tripping over the old ornate rugs, dropping the silverware, and napping after lunch as any other person as young looking as First Body.

If Bellatrix were honest, taking care of First Body was tiring. The Dark Lord had been incorporeal long enough that he was no longer accustomed to physicality - he could no longer float or walk through walls, floors, or well, anything. While he could look at a clock or timepiece and read the numbers, he had no idea if five minutes or five hours had passed while he was doing a task. Figuring out if he was hungry and what he wanted to eat? Frustrating, if not impossible, because he couldn’t figure out what First Body’s cues were telling him. It was no wonder that Wormtail had a meal plan and a daily schedule, including a bedtime. Except it was also Saturday, wash day. The cloth bags for holding dirty laundry in the old laundry room had been charmed to remove stains and clean the bags’ contents without figuring out the bulky machines with large lids and knobs. Thankfully, the Dark Lord knew which bedding and clothes needed placed into the cloth bags and how long it would take for the spellwork to finish, which only left convincing First Body that a bath was not the end of the world.

~

Life as a pet snake let loose once she had grown too big for the wizard to handle was hard. Nagini was used to dead mice being delivered to her temperature and humidity controlled enclosure once a week, and she had plenty of water and cooler spaces to wriggle into and rest without really searching for them. It may not have been the most interesting circumstances to wind up in (not when one of her fellow hatchlings was taken from the pet shop by a wizard looking for a familiar), but in hindsight, it was nice to be taken care of. Life in a forest where she had to find her own den, living creatures small and slow enough for her to fumble through catching, and avoid centaur hooves, among other threats, was unpleasant. Nagini was not a species that was accustomed to cold weather, and when the nighttime had started to chill in the autumn, she wasn’t entirely sure what to do. She did not have instincts gearing her up for hibernation that would allow her to survive the cold of the coming winter like the smaller native snakes, and when the warm touch of a Human-but-not had found her in her den, she was smart enough to agree to help the Speaker in exchange for his assistance.

Life as an Anchor was not what Nagini had thought it would be. Oh, she was very glad to be inside the large den built for Humans as the temperatures dipped below freezing and snow drifted down from the sky outside. She was grateful that Rat-Scented Man turned one of the rooms into a large enclosure for her and set up a lure for small creatures in the back garden. (The fact that she was technically large enough to eat a deer did not necessarily mean that she was capable of doing so.) After an embarrassing accident in which one of the living hares bit her and she needed stitches, Rat-Scented Man even went to the effort of pre-killing the lured creatures before leaving them on Her Rug in the kitchen. Life was certainly much easier than trying to live in the forest, but being an Anchor involved magic that was peculiar. She had to drink three drops of a strange potion from one feeding to another, and then, she had to safeguard the solitary egg created. (Odd, that. Her instincts were telling her that there should be more hatchlings, but it was probably that potion’s doing.) Perhaps, being a familiar and working with Humans on their magic was not all it was cracked up to be among animalkind. However, Speaker went from Human-but-not to a small Human, so being an Anchor must have some benefits.

Today, the balance between benefits (curling up around Speaker in the library while he practiced reading) and drawbacks (tasting that something was wrong in the air) was unclear. Rat-Scented Man had to go out hunting for Human food, but he did not wish to leave Speaker alone for the whole day, so Strange Woman had appeared. Speaker was not entirely comfortable around her (something about knowing her as a large Human before he died), but the air had tasted fine until the Human sized water bowl was filled and emptied. Speaker did not reappear for the last snack of the day (a warm drink he called hot chocolate), or invite her to his room (it was easier for Humans to move her in the plastic bin), or his before sleep story (Rat-Scented Man was the usual reader, so perhaps that was why Speaker was not yet asleep?), and Strange Woman did not tell Rat-Scented Man about any of this when he returned to the den. It took time to slither from the warm stones of the kitchen to the carpeted corridors and up the chilly stone steps to Speaker’s room, but his door was shut. The air tasted of saltwater and errant magic, the kind that slips out of Humans like lightning in moments of stomping anger. Something was wrong.

~

Not one of those dust filled scrolls and vague accounts of Resurrection had warned Voldemort that his brain was going to be like a flatshare, and his flatmate was a toddler. Tom, as Pettigrew had accepted calling his First Body, was doing and feeling everything for the first time, and Voldemort had no intentions of forming memories of nappies being changed or toilet training. Quite frankly, it was far less embarrassing to carve out a space where he could set up his memories like a library and organize them for the eventual reintegration than to venture outside that mental room. If Tom needed him, he could easily find the library and ask questions. If Pettigrew needed to talk to Voldemort, there was the Summoning Circle that nudged him into the driver’s seat of this body. Bloody hell, it was nerve wracking to get delegated to the back seat and have no way to keep the inevitable (Tom’s first scraped knee) from happening when someone decided to slide down the marble entryway staircase on a vaguely sled-like substitute because Pettigrew didn’t want him going out into the snow without a winter-proof coat yet.

Sometimes, Tom would lock the door of his mental room, so Voldemort wouldn’t have firsthand experience with whatever was happening to their body. It probably should’ve concerned him more, but after the utterly delightful experience of Tom outgrowing his tolerance of milk in one weekend, Voldemort was quite alright with letting him have some of his own memories that could be private and shed upon reintegration. Unfortunately, tonight featured less of a quiet and unobtrusive shutting and locking of the door and more of a loud slam. The bright cherry wood of his memory of the Hogwarts library door morphed into the grey steel dredged up from a distant memory of a Muggle bank vault’s door. He could sense a not quite intentional jitteriness to the change, like an adrenaline spike, or like Tom’s still somewhat separate subconscious had gone into a defensive lockdown. While Voldemort didn’t want Tom to experience harm or injury, he didn’t think forcing his way out of the library would actually improve the situation. Mental defenses were tricky that way. The subconscious was likely to hold onto a defensive trick until the body was in a relatively safe environment, which he didn’t have a way to keep track while in here.

An unknown amount of time later, Pettigrew’s muffled voice filtered in through the new door, “I’m not going to make you tell me what happened, but I think you should check in with Shade while I clean up.”

There wasn’t an instantaneous change, but Voldemort could sense that Tom was on the other side of the door. There was definitely something different about this check-in. Usually, Tom had the habit of popping in or yelling a question from across the threshold (of the open door) if it was a quick and easy matter. This felt like there was a strong wind on the other side of the door. Some sort of emotional storm, perhaps?

_Everything feels so big, but I can’t tell Mum-Da._

Voldemort narrowed his eyes as he looked down at First Body, who had decided to join him without making use of the library door. Tom had gone through a brief period of time while figuring out how words and talking worked where he called Pettigrew that name, Mum-Da, but he had agreed to stop doing so, as long as he got to call his caretaker Peter instead of Pettigrew. An internal slip-up was a sign of stress, but he hadn’t awoken from a nightmare. Unless the mess Pettigrew was cleaning up was another incident like the scraped knee?

“You shut the door.”

 _I didn’t do it on purpose._ A hint of surprise, but no traces of regret.

“What is Pettigrew cleaning up?”

 _My magic lashed out, and I broke some things._ Embarrassment, a little tiredness, and the faint wisps of anger.

“Hm-mm.”

The wind howled around the corners of the library. Tom glanced around at the books closest to the table where they were sitting. Voldemort had given the tabletop a glossy black marble layer, which worked quite well in playing memories across, but Tom wasn’t making a move to divulge the how or why of his accidental magic. The ancient sources hadn’t made any note of whether one’s First Body would re-experience the unpredictable magic of childhood, but the theory had been that the soul splinter’s memories could offer some stabilization. Clearly, Voldemort’s presence alone wasn’t the answer.

 _I don’t want to keep this memory._ A detached monotone.

“Memories that you don’t share with me before the Final Body is created will be lost, in a manner of speaking.”

 _I want to get rid of the memory, now._ An undercurrent of desperation, and if Tom were physically embodied before him, Voldemort was confident he’d be on the verge of tears.

“I can store it here, so you don’t have a conscious awareness of it, but I can’t make any guarantees that it won’t filter into your subconscious and your dreams because you’re the source.”

 _What if . . . What if I give it to you?_ Voldemort pushed away the feeling of déjà vu from the wary interest mirrored from his own childhood memories of bartering with older children at the orphanage.

“You decrease your chances of the memory working its way into a dream or nightmare, but only an extraction can guarantee zero resurfacing by placing the memory in external storage.”

Tom frowned at the table as he processed the words. They probably had a ring of familiarity, even if he couldn’t place that an acquaintance had given the explanation over a pint while talking about his training to become an Obliviator the summer after graduating from Hogwarts. Voldemort waved his hand in the direction of a shelf behind him, and a small off-white dragonhide bound book floated forward to land open and spine down on the table before him, showing its empty pages.

“I would highly recommend you try integrating one of my memories, so you can block out completely reliving your own.”

 _Do you have any Christmas ones?_ Voldemort couldn’t say he was surprised that the child-like curiosity landed on the upcoming holiday.

He didn’t want to frighten Tom with the Yuletide season during the Wizarding war (while no Muggles were sacrificed for Yule, a little Cruciatus did pop up for trespassers in sacred groves trying to cut down Christmas trees), nor did he want to show the bleakness of a cash strapped orphanage in the Muggle Interwar years. There was a sickly sweet tinge of cruelty in dusting off a Hogwarts Feast and showing the Slytherin table full to bursting with more food than First Body might see in its short life displayed for one meal. However, there was a memory that wasn’t too depressing or questionable to share.

“Christmas 1937, barely a week before my eleventh birthday and my Hogwarts letter.”

A small, black leather bound journal appeared on the table before Tom. He opened it, and Margaret’s voice carried from where she was sat next to the fireplace, in order to conserve the kerosene for the Tilley lamp:

_In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort._

Voldemort took a breath to brace himself for the detachment he would need. It was one of the tips from his Obliviator acquaintance, and a way to reduce the internalization of Tom’s memory. He was but an observer. An image of Tom sitting in the bathtub from the bathroom attached to his room appeared on the page.

~

“Peter, are you . . . You’re not mad, are you?”

“Mad about what?”

Peter wasn’t trying to be passive-aggressive or guilt Tom into talking, but he had lost track of what all might be a reason tonight. Was it the outburst of accidental magic that meant he had to put right the tiles, the sink, the bathtub, part of the doorway into the bathroom, and the bedframe in Tom’s old room? Was it his stubborn insistence that he wasn’t setting foot in said room ever again, which meant Peter had to give up his bed for the night? (It’s not like they had any visitors, so he hadn’t cleaned up a spare room as a guest room, but apparently, he was fixing up a new room with adjoining bathroom for Tom tomorrow.) Was it moving Tom’s few possessions downstairs and getting a cot ready for himself before he could even think of returning to putting away the groceries? Peter had spent all day struggling in the large Muggle shop trying to find the aisle he needed, double checking he wasn’t accidentally buying the more expensive ingredient, figuring out which Muggle banknotes he needed at the till, and getting unsolicited suggestions from the other riders with Darlene. He was too tired to be upset.

“That I couldn’t tell you?”

Peter wished he were brave enough to lie and say that he had hoped Tom trusted him enough to explain why he was acting strangely after being babysat, but a more honest part of him was too afraid to really push for details. Tom had heard about Mrs. Richardson, Mr. Gerhold, and the other townsfolk after his trips into town, but Tom knew it was too risky to be seen while he was ageing faster than even the most oblivious Muggle could believe. He had the Dark Lord’s memories of other wixen, of Muggles, of how much larger the world was outside of Little Hangleton, but really, when it came down to it, Tom was a peculiar child who only had Peter and Nagini in his long dead father’s house. Telling the only adult with a physically separate body in his life was different from telling the soul splinter that resided somewhere in his head with him. No matter how minor or major it was, Peter wasn’t sure he could stomach hearing details in Tom’s little kid voice. Maybe, Bellatrix had said something and forced a memory that wasn’t yet integrated to the surface, but maybe, just maybe, it was worse than that - most of the damage was focused on the bathtub, and just how many possibilities were there involving a child and a tub --

“No, I’m not mad. Just tired.”

“I gave it to Shay, so I don’t really ’member it now.”

 _Good._ Peter shouldn’t have felt so relieved, but he couldn’t imagine what he could do if Tom had told him. The Dark Lord had been considered dead for thirteen years and couldn’t have a report of his resurrected body found. He, himself, had had to fake his death while his Animagus was under orders, and he couldn’t be attached to any sort of report. The perpetrator was an escapee from Azkaban, and a report could blow most, if not all, of her fellow escapee’s covers. Technically, since the perpetrator was a witch, a report was supposed to be made with the Auror Office instead of the local Muggle authorities. A woman, who doesn’t exist in any Muggle system, thought she was interacting with an adult man, who also doesn’t exist in any Muggle system, while he’s temporarily in the body of a child because magic? Bloody fuckin’ hell, it wasn’t even possible to omit a few details and try to ask the Muggles.

“G’night, Peter.”

Tom yawned, and Peter tucked the quilt around him. He was a proper coward, who didn’t want to think about magical outbursts and nightmares, how memories could be buried but the body didn’t necessarily forget, or how his stomach was starting to knot with the reminder that _he_ was the one who wrote for a babysitter to look after Tom. There were wards, and no one else clearly visited, and oh fuck, there was a road to blaming the supposed caretaker. He quite literally had one job keeping him alive, right now. Merlin help him, if he could survive this year of waiting and get the Final Body brewed, maybe the Dark Lord would take mercy on him and kill him quickly.

“Goodnight, Tom.”

~

> To:  
>  Current Residents of  
>  Riddle Manor  
>  Little Hangleton
> 
> Caretaker:
> 
> If I take your word that First Body has its own separate consciousness that may be interacted with separately from our Lord, which is roughly age appropriate to its physical body, and therefore a child --
> 
> If we accept that even children as young as First Body may exhibit the beginning of sexual development, and may, for example, engage in simple pleasurable contact like touching oneself during a bath --
> 
> If I take your word that First Body is overwhelmingly in charge of its own actions and our Lord is often not in control of First Body, except for a particular Summoning process, to reduce the banality and embarrassment of reliving childhood --
> 
> If I am not mistaken in that Bellatrix may have ‘helped our Lord reacquaint himself with his body’ at some point during her visit, while incorrectly under the impression it was our Lord in control of First Body and therefore able to consent at the time --
> 
> Bellatrix will not be sent out to the property for any further babysitting of First Body. I do not know what this would do to Bellatrix (if she were to find out what she did), to the Dark Lord’s reputation, to the resurrection of the Death Eaters. We must not let the Aurors get wind of this, and someone will provide an anonymous tip if news of this situation spreads, if only to signal that they don’t condone it.
> 
> I agree with our Lord and think it would be best if his Nutrient Supplement Potion were decreased to prevent further physical ageing in the coming months. If we were to continue to try to age First Body too quickly, there is the possibility that it may get close to hitting puberty before the Final Body can be brewed, and we have no way of knowing if it will inhibit the integration of memories, cause damage to the physical body, or worse.
> 
> Burn this letter immediately,  
>  _Rodolphus Lestrange_

##### 21 Dec 1994

Tom stared at the evergreen that was tucked away among a small collection of trees on the Riddle property that didn’t seem large enough to call a forest, trying to make sense of their task, “So, we’re leaving the tree outside?”

“Yeah, I don’t quite know all of the rules about how long you let a tree grow before you can take it inside on Yule without inviting bad luck.”

He glanced at the shapes of bird seed that Peter had asked him to help make in the basket he was carrying, “And we’re not putting decorations on it?”

“Not Christmas ornaments, and garland, and all that. The suet’s for the birds.”

It’s not like it was boring, but decorating a Yule tree certainly didn’t live up to Tom’s memories of Christmas trees. Wasn’t there something they could decorate inside for Yule? Where did Father Christmas put the presents? Not that he dared ask, but was Shade old enough they had changed some things? The only bright side was that they had a finite amount of time to decorate this Yule tree, “What time is the Yule Message?”

“The what?”

Tom hung a wobbly star, one of his free hand creations, on a low branch, “Like - Like the King’s Christmas Message, but for the Wizarding world?”

“Erm, I’m not aware of that happening. The monarchy hasn’t been popular since William the Squib did a number on the Pureblood gentry in the name of the International Statute of Secrecy. Untangling Muggle and Wizarding aristocracy was complicated, to say the least.” 

Shade hadn’t exactly been a fan of the King and Queen, but this news didn’t make sense to Tom. He could remember sitting on a rug and listening to George the Something’s voice crackle out of a radio with the other children at the orphanage. There were carols, and Christmas greetings from around the Commonwealth, and it was all hazy like a half-remembered dream. He could remember encouragement about the Great Slump, talk of India and the Dominions, and well wishes to the Muggles fighting in the War. Maybe Peter didn’t know about the Christmas Message because he was younger than Shade? They could’ve gotten rid of it after he left the Muggle world?

“-- and after that, my cousin never tried to turn the Queen’s broadcast into a drinking game again. Y’know, the seventies were a bit odd like that, but I bet we could see if the telly in The Golden Parsnip might air it.”

Tom blinked and tried to catch up to the information Peter had shared (apparently, the Queen gave the Christmas Message now, and one was not supposed to drink during it), “I don’t remember it.”

“That’s where I get the fish and chips I bring back for you.”

“Shay was born in 1926. I don’t remember watching anything on the telly.”

“Oh, right, bit after your time. Well, we could still check.”

That certainly caught Tom’s attention, “I can go with you? But Shay said --”

“You’re not ageing any more than this, so” - Peter faltered in the awkward way he had started doing when he wasn’t sure how to talk about the events in The Memory or the resulting side effects - “So, as long as we keep our story straight between us, I think you can make one trip. For Christmas.”

That felt like forever. Time moved too slow for child reckoning, even if Shade was chiding him for his impatience. Tom sighed and set his empty basket on the ground covered in a dusting of snow, “Yule is boring. Can we do Christmas today?”

“No, we still have to get ready for the Yule Kneazle.”

“The what?”

Peter smiled more to himself than to Tom, “The Yule Kneazle. It depends on who tells the story, but he can be as large as a dog, or she’s twice as tall as the house. The Yule Kneazle was first talked about when children had to help their families with spinning, weaving, or something like that, so she checked to make sure the well-behaved children had some sort of clothing as a sign that they’d finished their chores by Yule.”

“What if they didn’t finish their chores?”

“If they forgot to put out something else to feed her, she’d eat’em.”

On the one hand, Shade was not overly impressed with fantastical thinking, as a Mind Healer might call it. _It’s quite likely that the Yule Kneazle rose to prominence when an epidemic could more easily wipe out younger children in the winter. Wixen were behind Muggles on vaccination._ On the other hand, Tom was quite alright with ignoring Shade’s commentary and partaking in such magical thinking, “Is that why you’ve been working on the quilts?”

Peter’s face did that funny squint he had while counting quid from their monthly envelope, “The Warming Charms and fire in the kitchen might not be enough as we really get into winter. It’s better to make reinforced quilts now.”

“I dunno if that’ll count. We should probably put out something for her, just in case.”

~

Nagini was quite certain she would never be able to make sense of Humans and their strange behavior. Speaker had taken some of the tinned chicken and moulded it into something he insisted was a mouse on one saucer, while Rat-Scented Man had placed some milk on another saucer. Both were sitting just outside the door to the back garden, and Nagini could taste that a fox was working its way closer, curious about the food. It would be too large to be ensnared by Rat-Scented Man’s lure for her, but still. What was the purpose of feeding so many of the outdoor creatures today? Oh, fine, the birds could be lured, so it might make sense to put all of the food on the tree, but a fox? Speaker had tried to explain about a creature called a Yule Kneazle, but Nagini didn’t have the heart to tell him that no such beast existed around here.

Life as an Anchor was better than Nagini had feared it would be. Speaker had given his memory of Strange Woman away, so he hopefully would not be angry again, and she was not returning to the Human den. Despite Rat-Scented Man’s best efforts to undo the damage Speaker had done to his room, Speaker preferred Rat-Scented Man’s nest, who did not seem thrilled by having to use the shorter nest that was closer to the floor. (He had cast several spells that made it feel like a gloriously soft cushion when she burrowed into the nest during the day, so Nagini couldn’t complain.) She was just glad that Speaker had returned to his routine. Last snack of the day, she crawled into the plastic bin so Rat-Scented Man could easily carry her to Speaker’s new nest, she curled up around his feet while Rat-Scented Man read the before sleep story, and then Speaker drifted off to sleep while Rat-Scented Man cleaned up in the kitchen where the fireplace kept the worst of the nighttime cold in the Human den at bay.

Nagini could feel the magic swirl around the Human den, keeping the wind and its chill outside. It wasn’t slipshod and fraying around the edges, but a sturdy layer of spellwork. Not that she could offer much magical assistance, but she appreciated that Rat-Scented Man had done his best to keep the rain and wind from working their way into the Human den, which had been abandoned and not lived in for awhile. If only the Warming Charms on the rooms could keep up with the size of the Human den, but really, Nagini could stay inside her enclosure room if the temperature got too low. However, she was fond of the little threads of Warming Charms stitched into Speaker’s quilt, which kept his nest at such a nice inbetween. Not as hot as the stones around the fireplace after Rat-Scented Man had been cooking in the kitchen, but not as cold as the stones farther away in the Human den. Just comfortable.

##### 24 Dec 1994

Peter was supposed to relay progress reports on the Resurrection efforts to the Order, and this meant that he had to also resume the Wormtail cover with the Death Eaters loyal enough to remain by their recovering Dark Lord’s side, and this meant that he had to take care of First Body because many of the others were recovering from Azkaban themselves, and it was turtles all the way down, but not one of those bloody turtles could help him get Nagini off the quilt for his bed that he was still trying to finish. She had plopped down like a large boneless cat in the dead center, and he wasn’t comfortable with forcing her to move. For starters, the python was fuck off long, and secondly, she weighed nearly as much as another adult, especially if she didn’t want to cooperate. Peter didn’t know if it was because she had become an Anchor, but he had trouble getting spells to ‘stick’ to her as it were, and if he needed to recast a Levitating Charm as often as he needed to recast the spell for stitches, it was far too much trouble to be worth it.

“Nagini likes your magic.”

Peter glanced over the far armrest of the couch that took up most of the space in what he called the sitting room to Tom standing in his slightly too large pajamas, Peter’s own slippers, and very noticeably not in bed sleeping, “I thought she was going to keep you company.”

“England gets too cold for her liking.”

“I suppose it’s a sign the Warming Charms work just fine on this fabric.”

Tom nodded and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. There had been no crashing, banging, or wood splintering noises, so Peter was fairly confident he could rule out another outburst of accidental magic. However, that didn’t necessarily rule out a nightmare because Tom had an unnerving ability to not make any noise during distress like he had screamed and noisily cried all sound out of his system in the early infant days. Tom clambered over the armrest and under the far side of the quilt, shifting Nagini as he went. Peter rather hoped it wasn’t a sign that the Dark Lord had decided to hold an impromptu meeting, “Is something wrong?”

Tom spent quite a long time rearranging the quilt over his lap and finding the best position for the snake to lay over his legs comfortably, but eventually, he relented, “Can’t sleep.”

 _No shit, Sherlock._ “I guessed that much.”

“Shay’s been giving me memories in my dreams, so the reintegration will be easier.”

Peter’s hand twirling the white thread of the Warming Charm from the tip of his wand through the square of fabric stilled. He hadn’t had the time - with needing to keep such a close eye on First Body in the beginning, and all - to poke at the Muggle wireless or figure out if he could get the old lamps to turn on, so there wasn’t any noise to fill up the silence of that statement. The fireplace in this room hadn’t been lit, and the nearly three meters tall grandfather clock in the corner had stopped years prior with its brass hour hand on the Roman numeral five and the long brass minute hand pointing at the curlicue 35. The arch above the large clock face had its pointer stopped on the 18th. Was the empty Riddle House better than the Dark Lord’s memories, or were they equally nightmarish for a young child?

“Supposedly, Father Christmas is a Muggle story. Like the Yule Kneazle.” _Thank Merlin, it’s not a war flashback._

Peter tried not to sigh in relief or smile at the absurdity of Tom’s child-like qualities, “I don’t think it’d be fair to lie to you, Tom. Most kids do learn that about Father Christmas.”

Tom scowled and grumbled to himself, “I think Shay’s too old to remember what fun is.”

“Have you told him?”

There weren’t very many things that kept Peter’s attention for the purpose of entertainment and were amusing in this multi-layered and multi-allegianced assignment, but oh, the prospect of the Dark Lord’s First Body informing him that he was too old to remember fun couldn’t be ignored. Tom gently ran a finger along a length of Nagini’s scales, “He got all quiet and then said that I should go back to sleep. He’s not used to children, is he?”

“Erm . . .” Peter couldn’t imagine the Dark Lord getting a baby handed off to him at a dinner party, or being asked to read to the wee ones on Christmas Eve, or anything related to children. If it weren’t for the fact that he had glimpsed his own childhood through Tom, Peter honestly wasn’t always sure that the Dark Lord didn’t just spring up into existence one day a few decades ago. “It’s probably been a very long time since he had to interact with any children.”

“Is . . . Is Christmas something that only Muggles do?”

Peter couldn’t blame Tom for the hushed whisper. If you asked four wixen, you’d get five opinions on the Mugglization of Wizarding culture that had been heartily approved of and adopted by the Ministry in the past few decades, lingering pushback against the Christian conversion of the British Isles, half-hearted assimilation, and the apologetic stance that it was too late to stop the uptake of certain Muggle practices. Families like the Blacks and Lestranges refused to celebrate the holiday, while some families like the Weasleys made a valiant cultural-but-not-really-religious effort, and there was a whole gamut in between. Peter shrugged, “Not exactly, but it’s . . . It’s complicated, and it really comes down to the family.”

“Shay has memories of Christmas at Hogwarts, but they’re too far away for me to remember.”

It wasn’t so much a lie, as Peter could tell Tom was trying to evade the flow of conversation about family perspectives. He wasn’t sure if it was an element of being First Body, or if the Dark Lord didn’t have conventional family memories to share, but Tom didn’t seem to understand references to having a family. He had been clueless as to why he shouldn’t call Peter ‘Mum-Da’ when he was relearning how to talk, and he never had throwaway mentions about aunts, uncles, or cousins when sharing answers from Shade. Logistically, the Dark Lord had to have someone who brought him into this world the first time around, but sometimes, it seemed like Tom simply had a non-relative and a snake. A shiver went up Peter’s spine. There were some questions best left unanswered. He flicked his wand to dissipate the Warmed thread, “Bedtime, round two.”

##### 25 Dec 1994

Tom was a bundle of energy. He had been excited that he was allowed to help chop the stems off the mushrooms - handling a knife by himself, no less - simply because there were too many for Peter to not have some assistance. Contrary to typical eating habits, his energy had gone up another notch after eating the mushroom Wellington and brussel sprouts with Yorkshire pudding and rowan berry jelly for dessert. While he was excited that he was getting the chance to leave the Riddle property, Peter’s anxiety was off the charts, “You have to remember your zip.”

Tom frowned down at it as Peter lined the teeth up, and his voice slid up a bit into a whine, “Do I ’af --?”

“Yes, and the mittens.”

Tom sighed and dug them out of his coat pockets.

“Do you have everything? Hat? Scarf?”

Tom reluctantly complied with getting ready, while grumbling, “We’re not going to the Arctic.”

“And who’s going to tell Shade why you caught a cold? We’ll all be miserable.”

“Can’t you do the appear-ate thing?”

Peter paused in tucking the ends of his scarf into the top of his coat. He had figured it was inevitable, but he had also hoped he wouldn’t have to explain to Tom what some of the aftereffects of being stuck in his Animagus form while under the Dark Lord’s continued order for thirteen years included. He was lucky that being the caretaker for First Body was just important enough for someone to help him access the adaption potions for Animagi who’ve been stuck in their Animagus forms for too long, or really, he’d be in worse shape. As it was, it could take him a few years to reduce the vertigo at being his human height again, and he would need to relearn Apparition. He shook his head, “Shade knows why I can’t Apparate these days. We’re walking.”

~

Christmas in Little Hangleton didn’t come with very much excitement. Heather had coaxed her dad’s Mini, a bit boxy and garishly blue, but dependably lumbering along since before she’d been born, from their home in Great Hangleton down to The Golden Parsnip with a few prayers that the sleet hadn’t turned to ice on the roads yet. There were wreaths and large red bows tied around lamp posts, but it was up to the residents and businesses along the main street to put up lights, which meant there was an eclectic mix of colors. Mr. Whitescarver had found a pale golden yellow as the best approximation of a parsnip, Mr. Tilby had alternating blue and white lights framing his window of books, and someone had hung a strand of purple lights along the edge of The Fabric Bird’s awning. It rather depended on which road one was driving on if there was freezing rain or snow in the Hangleton area expected, but Heather was bracing for a slow drive home in snow after closing. She just had to get through the rest of her shift.

“-- I have no idea when the lampposts were changed. Sorry.”

“The light seems different. I’m not sure I like’em.”

Weird Peter, who always got fish and chips to go, had come in on a day other than the first of the month. His threadbare coat was layered over his blue jumper, a few snowflakes were melting in his mousy brown hair, and really, he didn’t look any different than his usual. Except for the kid peeling off green mittens and winter items. He had a slightly too big jumper on underneath his coat like Peter, and the hat had ruffled his black hair around, but other than that, he looked remarkably chipper for walking through town. Heather grabbed two menus before approaching the booth they’d taken over, “We’re closing early at six, but you can order whatever you’d like until then.”

“Thank you, Heather.” Peter dug into an inner coat pocket for one of his odd bottles and nodded towards the kid, who was holding his menu upside down. “It’ll probably take a moment before we’re ready to order.”

Unlike other days when Peter came into town, Heather didn’t have anyone else to ask if they liked their food or wanted another drink. Ol’ Mac had gone down to his granddaughter’s house near the Cornish coast for the holidays, so she didn’t even have to check on how his crossword was coming in the _Yorkshire Post_. There was only so long she could pretend to watch the news on the telly above the counter, and she wasn’t supposed to stay in the kitchen with Caelan. It meant that as much as she didn’t want to outright stare, Heather had a full view of the only customers. The kid had finally turned his menu rightside up, but he still seemed to be having trouble reading it. Peter was measuring out dropperfuls of colorful liquid from his collection of jewel toned bottles - deep blue, emerald, ruby, violet - into two collapsible cups. It was much like his other visits, but it looked like he had a few additional bottles of medicine just for the kid, including a candy cane striped one that made the whole place smell of peppermint.

“Do I really need the Pepper Up? I didn’t catch any cold.” The kid’s higher pitched voice cut through the murmuring of the weatherman, but thankfully, he didn’t sound like he was resisting. Peter pushed the cup across the table, “Yes, and you need to finish it before you eat.”

Heather blinked at the small black carrying case that was open on the table. He never seemed to take the case out at the start of doling out medicine, and she had yet to see him in the process of getting the case out. It sorta just appeared on the table after she looked away, usually to tend to someone needing a new pot of water to refill their tea, but that didn’t make sense. It didn’t look like it should be able to hold all of the bottles that Peter had to put away, but somehow, they all wound up fitting. The case was odd, but maybe it had to do with the specially ordered medicine they needed?

“What’s ing - er - bread?”

“The ‘g’ looks a bit fancy, but it’s connected to the word. Gingerbread.”

“I can’t remember if I’ve had it before.”

“Eight nuts per slice, not bad.”

Heather frowned at the observation, which didn’t make sense with The Golden Parsnip’s gingerbread. Maybe he was used to someone else’s recipe? He couldn’t be allergic to nuts if eight per slice wasn’t half bad, but the menu didn’t even list ingredients or show pictures. Where was he getting this information? The kid glanced over the counter in her direction, and she figured he must take after his mum because Peter definitely didn’t have those serious green eyes, “Shay says to mind your pence and quid.”

Peter followed his gaze to her, and she quickly averted her own gaze down to her pad of paper for the orders, picking up her pen and doodling a wreath to look busy. Heather wasn’t doing anything funny, and she hadn’t made a point to eavesdrop. They were the only customers, is all. It’s not like it was her fault they were a bit odd with their weird liquid medicine and talking about nuts. No one would probably believe her that there was someone else in the strange family called Shay who, rudely enough, wanted Peter to pay attention to the prices. The man clearly double checked cost before ordering and carefully counted out one pound banknotes like they were precious treasure he didn’t truly want to part with. She glanced up through her fringe and saw the kid was busy folding a napkin into something. It was probably safe to check in. Heather had her pen at the ready, “’ello, Peter. Anything special today?”

Peter’s mouth did the not-really-a-smile quirk that was typical of him ordering, “Two ginger beers, one slice of gingerbread, and parsnip soup with garlic croutons.” _Why do we even offer the Parmesan croutons?_

“Do you want a plastic cup?” Heather had no idea what the kid’s name was, and they didn’t really have a children’s menu, but Mr. Whitescarver did relent to buying a set of clear plastic glassware after the accident involving Bethany’s birthday dinner and thirteen children under the age of six. “It’s not smaller, but it’ll be lighter and a little more kid friendly.”

“Yes, please.” Peter took the menu from in front of the kid, who was absorbed in folding a dragon, and handed her both of their menus. “I don’t suppose we could stay for the Queen’s Christmas Message, could we?”

On the one hand, Heather herself had been hoping she could skip out on that during her shift, but on the other hand, Caelan had heard from Zachary (who was dating Darlene’s daughter Samantha) that Peter walked into town from the direction of Riddle Lane, which meant he in all likelihood didn’t have the greatest telly or wireless reception. No one who lived out that way did. It’s not like anyone was around to protest, and at least it would be over quickly. Heather shrugged, “I guess so.”

~

On the screen above the counter, an elderly woman sat primly in a chair and spoke to the audience, “ _I shall never forget the events in Normandy last June, when the representatives of the wartime allies commemorated the fiftieth anniversary of the D-Day landings._ ”

Tom’s stomach quivered in an unpleasant way. She continued, “ _As Prince Philip and I stood watching the British veterans march past on the beach at Arromanches, my own memories of 1944 were stirred - of how it was to wait anxiously for news of friends and relations engaged in that massive and hazardous operation; of the subsequent ebb and flow of the battles in France and then in Germany itself; and of the gradual realisation that the war really was at last coming to an end._ ”

Shay didn’t like the Queen. He couldn’t quite remember a name, but the Crown was the Crown, and he knew he didn’t like her. Tom didn’t like that she was upsetting Shay. He had done a lot of his first time ageing in the years before The War started, and it was far more than waiting anxiously for news. It had pushed the International Statute of Secrecy to the breaking point and torn open wounds in the Wizarding world that had never healed from ‘The War To End All Wars’. Tom tried to push aside the flashes of memories being drug up out of Shay’s books and pay attention.

“ _Last Christmas we were witnessing the signs of a new dawn after the long bitterness, and this year these signs have become steadily stronger. If that new dawn is to be a real and not a false one, courage, patience, and faith will be sorely needed - those same qualities which kept the flame of hope alive in the war-torn countries of Europe and the Far East in the dark days of the last war._ ”

Shay was remembering The Blitz with his own sense of bitterness. The youngest children from the orphanage being sent out of London, and the oldest rushing off in a whirlwind of enlistment. The wixen had learned from the last war that specific wards needed to be set up to deter the large Muggle missiles from striking their homes and businesses, and the Department for Magical Transportation was tied up in legislative knots about how to deflect the German aeroplanes being used in wartime efforts without halting all domestic flights in British aerospace. What flames of hope were there, exactly?

“ _In Northern Ireland, peace is gradually taking root; a fully democratic South Africa has been welcomed back into the Commonwealth; and, in the Middle East, long-standing enmities are healing. What is it that makes people turn from violence, and try to bring peace to their community? Most of all, I believe, it is their determination to bring reality to their hopes of a better world for their children._ ”

Tom’s heart felt jittery. The Muggle was wrong - very, very wrong. He could see in the glimpses of Shay’s memories that people did not turn from violence towards peace when faced with protecting their community and building a better world for their children. He couldn’t really identify anyone, and he wasn’t being given the memories so there wasn’t enough sound or detail to get the entirety of what was going on, but Tom could feel the gist. There were wizards and witches, not all but a fair few, who were willing to get rid of Muggles to protect the Wizarding world. Perhaps some disagreed on how many, or the methods used, but they were not looking ahead to the coming year with peace in mind.

“ _Next year, we shall commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War. The celebrations will no doubt be spectacular, and I hope we all enjoy them. But we can also, each in our own way, ensure that they leave a lasting mark in history._ ”

Tom didn’t necessarily enjoy doing so, but he wound up shutting the door to the library in his mind. Shay was too angry to listen to the Queen speak, and he wanted his hand holding onto the fork to stop shaking.

“ _If we resolve to be considerate and to help our neighbours; to make friends with people of different races and religions; and, as our Lord said, to look to our own faults before we criticise others, we will be keeping faith with those who landed in Normandy and fought so doggedly for their belief in freedom, peace, and human decency._

“ _The poet Siegfried Sassoon, amidst all the horrors of war, still found himself able to write these words:-_

_‘Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted  
And beauty came like the setting sun.’_

“ _If he could see the beauty from the trenches of Flanders, surely we can look for it in our own lives, this Christmas and in the coming year._

“ _Happy Christmas and God bless you._ ”

The telly’s volume dipped too low for him to hear anything else. It felt like the gingerbread was stuck in his throat, and then it felt like he was drowning in ginger beer, and Tom regretted asking about the King’s Christmas Message. He didn’t like when Shay got angry about Muggles and wanted to make them pay for their transgressions against the Wizarding world. Tom wasn’t under any delusions that Shay had been a good wizard when he died, and it wasn’t exactly nice behavior that made horcruxes and enabled Shades to continue living. Shay didn’t have to give him the explicit details in memories for the impressions to work their way into nightmarish dreams. But Tom wasn’t Shay, not yet.

~

For a split second, Voldemort was concerned that Tom was shutting and locking the door as a defense mechanism again. Then he paused, took a deep breath, and looked about the library to where books had flown off the shelves if they had any memories of the Second World War in them. Right, he had to relearn how to manage anger in a corporeal form. Voldemort had been selective about which memories from his childhood and teenage years were being given to Tom in his dreams because the shock of too many memories would outweigh the benefits of splitting up reintegrating memories into chunks. This tactic had so far spared Tom from the breadth of the 1930s and 1940s, but unfortunately, it meant that his First Body didn’t have enough shared context for anti-monarchy sentiment and the effects of the Muggle World Wars on the Wizarding world. As unsettling as the anger might have been, Tom hadn’t truly shut him out of the Christmas proceedings.

“I’m not really sure I can help you with this.” Pettigrew sounded more confused than worried, and it would be great if Voldemort could get a clue about what Tom was trying to do.

 _Where’s Mum?_ Thankfully, Tom didn’t sound upset or angry as he cracked open the door, but Voldemort was not expecting that kind of question. _I can’t find her._

“Erm . . .” Voldemort had already had to explain why he’d grown up in an orphanage, so this was a shitty clue, all things considered. He didn’t think it was likely that Tom Riddle Senior had kept any evidence of his first wife in the Riddle library, but if Muggles were as keen on familial recordkeeping as Pureblood wixen were, there was a slight possibility that Tom had stumbled upon a hidden record of his mother. “I don’t know where you are.”

 _Little Hangleton Cemetery._ He blinked down at the curious and innocent eyes of his First Body peeking around the door knob, “What?”

 _It’s on the way home, and I wanted to see if Mum was here._ Voldemort was quite certain one of his eyes twitched at referring to the Riddle House as ‘home’, but he couldn’t really blame Tom, at least not right now. “Merope Gaunt died in London on the 31st of December in 1926. She’s probably in a pauper’s grave down there.”

 _Peter called it a family plot. It’s next to an old tree, and there’s a whole bunch of headstones with that name on ’em._ Tom swung the door open as he retreated, and Voldemort could catch a glimpse of the outside surroundings. Bloody hell - it was snowing! - and Pettigrew was allowing his First Body to traipse through a cemetery. The last thing he wanted was to experience Tom’s first cold, thank you very much.

“I’m not sure if there’s an organization system, but Marvolo died the same year.” It would be a little awkward to try to explain the situation with Morfin and framing him for the Riddle murders at the moment, but that could be a memory for reintegrating later. Odds are, his biological uncle was still in Azkaban.

 _Peter magic’ed a wreath for the gardener, and I want him to make one for Mum._ Voldemort shrugged. How was he supposed to know that the Muggle had stuck around on the estate? Or that he would set off one of the wards and wind up dying in the first month they moved in? It had been a valuable test run to readjust the settings and merely Stun trespassers, but that hadn’t been very much comfort to Pettigrew, who had to make sure Frank whatshisname had a convincing natural death for the Muggle authorities called up to his lodgings.

Pettigrew may or may not have mumbled something, but Tom wasn’t paying attention as the wrought iron fence and gate of the cemetery passed by. A dreary feeling crept up the doorway and along the floor into the library, but Voldemort pushed the sadness away to swirl around his feet instead of consuming him. If Tom wanted to be sad that he couldn’t find the grave of a witch neither of them ever got to meet, he could have a pity party all by himself. Voldemort had evening plans to go back to reshelving and organizing the books in their library.

~

Peter had no fuckin’ clue why people hyped up Christmas. Sure, it was nice to not feel like he was wasting money by eating out, and there was something quaint and charming about walking around Little Hangleton to see the different lights and decorations. Tom had been surprisingly engaged with their meandering walk and had questions about how to mask magical effects on lights for Muggles, though Peter himself didn’t know any of those answers. (It was incredibly surreal to feel like he was having a conversation that Arthur would’ve loved, but that line of thought led to memories of being stuck as Scabbers that were best left alone tonight.) The stopover at the cemetery had caught him a little off guard, but he couldn’t say that he blamed Tom for the curiosity. He could see his likeness in the Muggle paintings along the walls, and he knew that part of the Resurrection involved accessing a Riddle bone, which was why they had to stay on this property. Questions about the Dark Lord’s mum, though? Above Peter’s paygrade. It probably hadn’t been helped by the talk of family traditions for Christmas, Yule being more fun with one’s family, or the Queen’s talk of peacetime for one’s children.

However, magic was pretty damn great. As soon as they had shuffled across the Riddle property line, Peter had been able to cast a few spells to dry out their clothes and repel the snow. Unfortunately, Tom had burnt off the energy from the gingerbread and the excitement of Christmas by that time as well, and he was far too sleepy to protest being carried. Hopefully, the Dark Lord was firmly ensconced in the mental library and would be none the wiser that Peter wasn’t making Tom walk the last bit of the way, “Did I, or did I not, warn you that you’d miss out on your nap, if you watched the broadcast?”

“‘M not cranky.” _And flobberworms can fly._

Tom idly played with the edges of Peter’s scarf and let himself dangle from around Peter’s neck. On the one hand, Peter had no desire to wrestle with an unhappy child, who could potentially throw in some kicking and screaming, but on the other hand, he wished that Tom still had a little spark. He had gone quiet, in a moping kind of way, after they weren’t able to find Merope’s headstone in the Gaunt family plot, and the whole point of going out for Christmas wasn’t to make him sad. Peter readjusted his hold around the small child, while currently unable to offer more definite reassurance, “Hm-mm. Sure you’re not.”

“The driveway is too long.”

Personally, Peter’s legs were in agreement with him, but out of a sense of self-preservation, he didn’t dare voice that sentiment. If Tom got the Dark Lord involved, he might be tasked with doing something about the length of the driveway, and honestly, he didn’t want to try to fix that. The Riddles had once been pretty well off, and they had a driveway that was just a bit too long for walking purposes because they were rich and probably had cars in the garage. He didn’t know how to alter the driveway, and he had zero desire to figure out Muggle vehicles that were probably broken down fifty (or more) year old death traps. Peter was fairly certain the extra walking and trying to walk on snow were the last straws for his body, and it couldn’t have been any easier for Tom, who was accustomed to walking around within the manor on relatively flat, slip free surfaces, “It’s alright. You’ll feel better in the morning after a good night’s rest.”

Tom huffed but didn’t speak during the slog up the driveway, around the side of the house, and through the kitchen door. The front entrance technically would’ve gotten them inside sooner, but with all the heating efforts focused on the kitchen and surrounding rooms, it made more sense to go directly there instead. Peter carefully set Tom on the ground in front of the doorway, and he wriggled and kicked out of his shoes instead of taking a few seconds to untie them. Peter was too tired to insist that he put them by the door where they were supposed to go, but he did make sure that Tom didn’t leave a trail of clothes along the kitchen floor, “Hang’em on the pegs by the door. They’ll dry better there.”

The currently very young seeming charge didn’t so much as say anything in response as he whined a fluctuating set of pitches, while shuffling in the direction of where he’d been sleeping the past week after complying. Peter placed his shoes by the door, shrugged off his own coat, and carefully stepped over Nagini to get to his quilt that was now free. It was too late to try to work on it tonight, but he could at least get it up and out of her way for tomorrow. A more intelligible whine cut through the walls from one of the servants quarters Peter had initially hoped was far enough away from Tom’s upstairs bedroom to let him sleep undisturbed, “Will you bring Nagini?”

Thankfully, the fuck off long and heavy python was used to Tom’s nighttime routine and got herself into the plastic bin for him to carry. He couldn’t say he was enthusiastic about trying to read a chapter out loud after walking around so much of Little Hangleton, and honestly, he couldn’t rule out the possibility that he might nod off with the book open in his lap. Peter gingerly set the bin down near the foot of his old bed and tucked Tom in, while Nagini slithered up onto the quilt. He was more on autopilot than really thinking about each step of the process after years of watching the Weasleys tuck in their large family - quilt up to the chin, fold back, smooth out on either side, peck on the top of the head, ruffle the hair. _Wait a minute --_

Tom’s nose crinkled as he blinked up at Peter, still sleepy but not quite sleepy enough to not notice what had just happened, “What’d’ya do to my hair?”

“I - I . . .” Peter hoped the Dark Lord wouldn’t bring this up at the next Summoning check-in because he didn’t want a reminder that displays of familiarity could mislead the First Body into thinking they were something resembling a family, which could cause unforeseen obstacles to reintegration and the eventual Resurrection. “It’s, erm, an old habit.”

“I don’t think Shay would approve.” There was a seriousness to the observation that made it hard for Peter to find words. He nodded and stood, “You’re right. I’ll be more careful, and it won’t happen again.”

Tom looked down at Nagini curled alongside his legs. There was still an air of sadness about him from the cemetery visit, and he looked a bit disappointed, like a part of him had been expecting a different answer. (An explanation of the Dark Lord’s thinking? A summary of why it was sort of a habit? Some sort of argument or persuasive conversation to reach mutual convincing that a relatively minor display of affection really ought to be withheld?) Peter smoothed his hair down, trying in a slight way to take the infraction back, “G’night, Tom. Merry Christmas.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sources from original fic: Destroying Angel, Death Cap, and Funeral Bell are all poisonous mushrooms ([source](https://www.woodlandtrust.org.uk/blog/2018/11/poisonous-mushrooms/)). Other sources: How to [Decorate an Outdoor Christmas Tree with Edible Ornaments for the Animals](https://returntonow.net/2019/12/16/decorate-an-outdoor-christmas-tree-with-edible-ornaments-for-the-animals/) (used in the Yule section) and the Yule Kneazle was inspired by the [Yule Cat](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Icelandic_Christmas_folklore#The_Yule_Cat).
> 
> Once upon a time, I was going to work out that Roldophus signed off on the cheapest side and didn’t want to release the money for extraneous Christmas expenses because of going over a certain amount, but 1) math, and 2) writing is a mix of google-able info (Tesco does exist, and Boyes is like a regional Poundland) and creative license (is it physically possible for me to not have a Potions headcanon in a fic?).
> 
> Sources: Queen’s Christmas Message for [1994](https://www.royal.uk/christmas-broadcast-1994) (not used here in full), grandfather clock [dating](http://www.clockmakersandrepairs.co.uk/page6.htm).
> 
> I can’t make any guarantees, but I’m considering a continuation for Boxing Day, Tom’s birthday, or possibly both.


End file.
